Mdle. D’Einsiedel forgot her negro and her parrot.
“He is a cruel tyrant—a bitter oppressor!” she exclaimed; her pale little face looked sharp with anger, “he fights for the lust of conquest—a heartless, fierce man.”
“So speaks the betrothed of Patkul,” answered Aurora. “You are too bitter against this man to judge him. He is a hero. And young and splendid, a Viking, child.”
“This is not the age for Vikings,” said Hélène coldly, “he is like his father. Patkul has told me of them—hard and cruel—how I loathe cruelty.”
Tears shone in her soft eyes and her lips quivered; she was thinking that it was just possible Patkul might one day be in the power of this same cruelty.
“Nay, he is just and even generous; you heard how, after Narva, he gave all the Russian officers their liberty, detaining only M. de Croy, to whom he paid full honor—and the modesty of his dispatches! ’Tis said that with his own hand he struck out his praises and put in those of the Czar.”
“’Tis his vanity,” said Hélène scornfully, “he wishes to impress the world—see if he is kind to his peasants—to his women-folk—see if he has ever thought of the justice of Livonia’s wish for liberty—he blindly continues his father’s tyrannies.”
Aurora checked her with a light laugh.
“That is none of it women’s business. Augustus is the best-natured person in the world, but I doubt if he knows much of his peasantry in either Saxony or Poland!” and she laughed again at the thought.
“He would be a better prince if he did,” said Hélène, with a sternness strange in one of her youth and frivolous appearance. “Patkul says the day will surely come when all the peoples will rise up and cast down their rulers.”